


Unsent, Unsung, Unknown

by theherocomplex



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Epistolary, Gen, Letters, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 14:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19769683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theherocomplex/pseuds/theherocomplex
Summary: Five letters Julian never sent, and one he did.





	Unsent, Unsung, Unknown

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Daneel](https://daneel-the-sister-of-castiel.tumblr.com/), as part of the [Fields of Vesuvia](https://fieldsofvesuvia.tumblr.com/%22) exchange on Tumblr. 
> 
> I've always wanted to write a 5+1 fic, and this gave me the chance!
> 
> Content warnings for blood and injury mention, as well as medical treatments and references to off-screen violence.

**Letter I: Pasha**

(A crumpled bit of parchment found stuck to the Nevivon signpost after a heavy rain; the writing upon it is a messy, exuberant scrawl.)

_ My dearest, littlest sister,  _

_ Well, by now you know I'm gone, and are probably  _ furious _ with me for leaving without saying goodbye. But — I left so early, and had so far to go, and besides, last night was so much fun I'd rather leave that as our goodbye. The way you kicked Bert's ass in the footrace — I haven't laughed that hard in years. He'll be pouting for ages.  _

_ And before anyone makes you feel bad about winning — don't. He deserved it, especially after the way he broke your sling last year. Little shit, that's what he is, and don't you forget it.  _

_ Now — I don't know when I'll be back, Pasha, but it might be a long time. I'm going to be a doctor, and they have to train for  _ years _ and  _ years _ just to pass the apprenticeships — and I'm going all the way to Prakra, because that's where the best doctors train, and that's what I'm going to be. The best. I want to help people who are hurt, and broken, and I want to make them laugh while I'm helping them, the way we always made each other laugh.  _

_ I'm sorry, Pasha. I left early because I knew you'd want to come with me, and — and you can't. Not this time. It's not going to be safe and I can't let anything happen to you. And I knew I couldn't say no if you asked me, and then Grandma Lilinka would have my head and then what kind of doctor would I be?  _

_ I'm sorry. You can hate me, I'll understand. But I'll be back, once I'm a doctor, and by then you'll probably have taken over as Mazelinka's first mate. I'll be your ship's doctor, and we'll never stop sailing. No storms can stop us this time.  _

_ Keep Nevivon safe for me while I'm gone, all right? If you can't reach their eyes, aim for the knees.  _

_ All my love,  _

__

_ Your big brother,  _

_ Ilya _

_ ***  _

Pasha didn't cry, not when she tripped going down to the baths and knocked out her front four baby teeth in one whack. She didn't cry when Bert and Abbott stole the glass beads Mazelinka gave her for a birthday present, and she didn't cry when she woke up from nightmares about the ship going down underneath her, and losing her grip on Ilya's hand. 

So she  _ wasn't _ going to cry over her stupid big brother leaving, especially not when he didn't even leave a  _ note _ for her to tear up and stomp on when he was gone. 

"He always  _ does this, _ " she said to her porridge bowl, while Grandma Lilinka pottered away at the oven. "He always leaves me behind and tells me he wants to keep me safe, but really he just doesn't —" 

She bit her lip. Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. Maybe that was a good thing, because the end of the sentence was  _ really he just doesn't want me around _ — and if that was true, then it would mean all the good times they'd had, all the mud fights and playing pirate and building forts, was just Ilya faking it till he could get away from her. It would mean she really didn't have anybody. 

Grandma Lilinka turned away from shaping the day's bread, and clucked soothingly. "There, Pasha, sweeting, come here and help knead the dough." 

"No." Pasha shoved her bowl away. "I don't want to make stupid bread, and I don't want to do stupid chores, and I don't want — I didn't want to  _ go _ with him, either." 

Oh, no. She was going to cry, like a big baby, and she'd get all red and huffy and then  _ everyone _ in town would know she was crying because stupid  _ Ilya _ left without saying goodbye. 

Pasha ground her fists into her eyes to press the tears back in, but they snuck out, scalding hot, and all she could hear was Ilya laughing — laughing because he'd finally left his baby sister behind, and could do whatever he wanted. 

Warm, yeast-scented arms wrapped around her. "There, sweeting." Grandma Lilinka kissed the top of her head, and finally Pasha gave in and sobbed into her soft shoulder, clutching at the straps of her apron. "I know. I know it hurts. I — I miss him too." 

A soft shudder of breath, and then Grandma Lilinka made a funny noise, almost like she was crying, too. "That damn slippery boy," she muttered. 

Pasha gasped, leaning back. "That's a  _ bad _ word," she said, stunned out of her tears for a moment. "Grandma!" 

"Oh, that's hardly a  _ bad _ word, Pasha," said Mazelinka, appearing at the open window. "I could teach you a few  _ much _ worse, and  _ far _ more appropriate for —" 

"Maze." Grandma Lilinka wagged a finger while she wiped her eyes. "Don't you dare." Then she made a quick gesture with both hands Pasha couldn't quite follow, and Mazelinka shook her head once. 

_ Always talking like I'm not here _ , Pasha thought to herself, while tears burned in her eyes again. Just like Ilya, even if they didn't leave. Everyone thought she was just a  _ baby.  _

Well, she wouldn't be a baby forever. Someday she'd be all grown-up, even older than Ilya was now, and she'd go find him. And then she'd twist his ears, and tell him off for leaving behind his sister  _ for her own good _ . She'd have her own adventures along the way, just as amazing as his, or even better, and she could brag about them when she saw him again. It'd serve him right, not to be the center of attention for once. 

_ Someday, Ilya, _ she thought, while Grandma Lilinka opened the door for Mazelinka.  _ I'll catch up to you, and you won't get to leave me behind again.  _

**********

**Letter II: Nazali**

(Expensive stationary, made from linen instead of paper; the ink upon it is a bright, confident crimson. The writing is precise, as if it were practiced many times. The letter was found at the bottom of an otherwise empty satchel, thrown from a bandit wagon and abandoned on the road outside the city.) 

_ Doctor Satrinava,  _

_ Greeting and salutations! I hope this letter finds you well!  _

_ Allow me to introduce myself: I am Ilya Devorak, an aspiring student in the field of medicine, and after hearing your name mentioned as one of the leading healers in all the world, I knew I had to write to you and ask for — no,  _ beg _ — for a position as your apprentice.  _

_ I have traveled the world for some time now, and have gathered no little experience in herbs, poultices, wound care, and the preparation of corpses. In Nevivon, the humble town where I was raised (known for its salt and its formidable grandmothers) _ ,  _ I was famous for my neat stitches, and for my treatment of the common cold.  _

_ No doubt it is not common practice to apply for an apprenticeship without copious references, but I fear my earthly wanderings have left me without much recourse in that field. I therefore ask you, with all due respect, and with great hope, to take me on as your apprentice, and impart your wealth of knowledge unto me.  _

_ As I am lately arrived in Prakra, I humbly ask that you send your reply to the Dingy Dove Inn, where I currently reside.  _

_ May your scalpels be swift, your gauze ever-pristine, and your hands forever steady!  _

_ Yours most cordially,  _

_ Ilya Devorak  _

_ ***  _

"It's hot as blazes in here, princess," said Clesotis. "Want me to bring up more ice?" 

"Yes, fast as you can — and it's  _ doctor _ , not  _ princess _ , while I'm in this tent."  _ Or anywhere _ , Nazali thought, though they said nothing else while Clesotis hurried away. The patient on the table before them groaned and tried to sit up; they pushed the woman gently back down with a hand against her chest. 

"Not so fast, my friend." Nazali reached to their left, and felt Misha press a threaded silver needle into their hand. "You sit up again, and I won't be responsible for what happens next." 

The woman made a choking noise Nazali assumed was a pain-muddied laugh. "Oh?" She licked dry, chapped lips. "And what would come next?" 

"Your internal organs very quickly become external, and you would very quickly become dead." 

Another awful rattling sound. Nazali began to sew, hardly feeling it when Misha wiped their forehead clean of sweat. "I may be dead regardless, doctor," said the woman. "That scimitar — damn me for not seeing it coming, I almost deserve this —" 

"No one deserves this," said Nazali, absently. The wound was a vicious curve from hip to rib; even if the patient lived, she'd never fight again.  _ What wouldn't I give for a mage-healer right about now _ , they thought, as the thread ran out. "Just lie still. Halfway done, you're doing marvelously." 

A commotion broke out behind them, toward the front of the tent. Nazali heard Clesotis’ voice raised in a yell, and someone unfamiliar yelped and began to apologize. 

"A new crisis?" said Misha. "Should I —" 

"Stay right there, and hand me the bowl of — no, the one with the blue gauze that smells of mint. There, yes." Nazali squeezed out the gauze pad and gently,  _ gently _ cleaned the neatly-stitched wound before winding dry, tooth-white gauze around the patient's belly. The woman shuddered, eyes rolling back in her head, and with a quiet sigh, passed out. 

"Well, that's for the best." Nazali straightened up, blowing sweat-damp clumps of hair out of their face, and grimaced at the blood drying, heavy and sticky, on their fingers. "Get the porters, Misha — she can be moved, but I'll want to check on that dressing in an hour or so. No drinking for now, but she can have ice chips and —" 

They never got to finish the rest of their instructions; the curtain hanging in the doorway of the operating room flapped open and what seemed like several miles of arms and legs entered. Nazali thought of a spider, and then of a lobster, as a massive amount of red hair followed all the limbs. 

Huffing and grumbling, Clesotis appeared behind the new arrival, clearly furious. "Sorry, prin — doctor, but I told him you were busy, and he insisted, said you'd got a letter from him about an apprenticeship?" 

"Well, ah, I may have exaggerated a bit, actually, as it turns out." A young man formed from all the hair and limbs, sunburned and twitchy and too tall to be believed. "I mean, I certainly  _ wrote _ a letter, and very truly meant to send it, but then all my belongings were stolen at the Dove, along with my letter, and now —" 

"You stayed at the Dove? You're lucky you weren't carved open in your sleep." The young man blanched at Nazali's words, but stood straight under their assessing stare. They wiped their hands on a clean towel, and raised an eyebrow. "So. Who are you, and why are you invading my medical tent?" 

He drew himself up — even taller — and opened his mouth, but a scream blasted apart the relative quiet and three porters ran in, carrying a blood-spattered soldier with his arm in tatters. 

Nazali took a last look at the man — no, the boy, really; he'd gone pale as milk at the sight of all the blood, but he wasn't throwing up his lunch, and his hands were steady. 

"We'll do instructions later," they said, while Misha ran to fetch the saws and fresh-boiled water. "Your job is to hold this poor soul down while we take care of his arm." 

**********

**Letter III: Mazelinka and Lilinka**

(Cheap paper, cheaper ink. Discovered stuffed under a mattress in the royal jail, and burned as kindling when the rainy season set in.)

_ Mazelinka! Lilinka!  _

_ It's been too long, hasn't it, my dears? About time I set pen to paper and got you caught up on all my doings, both above-board, and…not. But never fear, no matter how interesting things have gotten, I've still come out alive and kicking.  _

_ First thing first: an apology. I won't be able to make it home this year, it turns out. I'm so sorry, please know I tried, but — things have happened, and a spot of bad luck had me missing the last boat back.  _

_ Before I start a true Ilya ramble and run out of room (can you believe they charge by the page for parchment here? Unbelievable! It's enough to make a doctor want to turn pirate!), let me ask how you are. Have the tourists come streaming in to cart off our salts by the half-ton? I know how much you both hate that time of year. Cheeky bastards, all of them -- but I doubt you've slowed down with the rolling pin, or the spoon. They won't know what hit them, and then they will, and then they'll be humiliated, and hopefully learn their lesson about trying to steal the salts on your watch.  _

_ Mazelinka, have you finally taken Pasha out for more than a trip around the harbor? I keep thinking about her getting tangled in the rigging like she did my last summer in town, but that was six years ago now, and she's probably just as tall as me, and climbing the main mast alone.  _

_ Six years. I can't believe it's been so long. I keep meaning to come home, but — well, the life of an adventurer is all about improvising, and going wherever the wind blows me, and sadly the wind hasn't seemed to blow me home yet. I miss you all, don't you dare think otherwise for a moment. I'm just collecting more stories for when I  _ do _ come home, think of it that way!  _

_ As for me, I just finished the most  _ fascinating _ apprenticeship with Doctor Nazali Satrinava themself. Hold your applause! You remember the monograph I showed you, about wound care and — you know what? I'll just assume you remember, and will spare you reliving the details. They're just as impressive in person — no, more so! They only need two saw-strokes to take off a man's leg, and they do it in a way that makes it simplicity itself to attach a prosthetic. Sheer artistry.  _

_ I've learned so much these past few years — mostly battlefield medicine, which is rather heavy on the screaming and infections, but you do learn to make decisions very quickly, and to work well under pressure. It's been months since my hands shook, and Doctor Satrinava says my stitches are just as good as theirs.  _

_ They also said it was time for me to go home, before I set off on the next apprenticeship, and really, I did try — there's no one I want to see more than you two, and Pasha —but —  _

_ Oh, hell. There's no way around it. I've been arrested. I'm in jail, and they're not going to let me out for a while, it seems.  _

_ Stupid of me, really, to listen to that old fool in the bar. You always told us, easy jobs for a lot of coin are a scam, at best, and look at that: right as rain. But it sounded like such a sure thing, just moving heirloom beehives from one estate to another — just a prank, really, and where's the harm in a prank? — but the bees belonged to one of the city magravaines, and he's awfully particular about them, and one of the hives swarmed away, and along came the guards, and... _

_ …and so I'm here, writing to you in the dark. I suppose I deserve it. The bees' honey can be distilled into a syrup with some rather impressive properties, like driving back infection in battlefield wounds. I fed that syrup to a few hundred soldiers in my time with Doctor Satrinava, and now — now look at me, all because it sounded  _ fun. 

_ They said I'll have served my time when the rainy season starts. And then I'll come home, right away, no stops for adventures or jobs, easy or otherwise, along the way. I've learned my lesson — no more trouble, or at least only  _ good _ trouble from now on.  _

_ Give Pasha my love.  _

_ May you find clear skies, and soft winds.  _

_ Love,  _

_ Ilya  _

*** 

"So no word from him, then," Lilinka said at last. "That damn slippery boy."

Mazelinka handed her a fresh cup of tea. Pasha's voice, sweet and slightly off-key, meandered out of the kitchen and into the front room. Lilinka sniffed at the tea, then held out the cup with a raised eyebrow. With a sigh of her own, Mazelinka dropped two sugarcubes into the cup, and then two more when Lilinka's mouth thinned. 

"No word," she said, once Lilinka was satisfied with her cup. "But that's no surprise. Ilya was never one for letter-writing." 

"Oh, he wrote them, he'd just get distracted by some new terrible idea and go chase it down — and the letter would blow away to gods knew where, and that would be that." Lilinka sipped her tea and leaned back in her chair. "I can feel you staring at me, Maze. Stop it." 

"What? I'm not allowed to look at you now?" 

"Oh, you sweet thing, you very much are, but not like  _ that _ ." Lilinka covered Mazelinka's hand with her own. It was ice-cold, the skin dry as parchment. "Hand me the cream, would you? These leaves don't make a half-decent brew on their own." 

"Your fault for buying the cheapest leaves at the market." Mazelinka held the tiny jug of cream just out of Lilinka's reach, grinning as her love pouted, then ducked in for a quick kiss before handing it over. "And now poor Pasha doesn't know any better, since you ruined her palate years ago." 

Lilinka sighed again — the disapproving sort, not the one full of longing and sadness — and chased Mazelinka for another kiss. "Like you should talk. Look at those spices you keep bringing along. The children are convinced a dish isn't complete without two fistfuls of black pepper." 

Mazelinka took a prim sip of her awful tea. "I see  _ that _ as a mark of good taste." 

"You would." 

They sipped in silence, while Pasha went singing out into the garden, squeaking on the high notes. Birdsong filtered in through the open windows, along with a rain-scented breeze and the ever-present smell of salt. Mazelinka watched Lilinka's hands shake as she maneuvered her cup back to the saucer, and bit down hard on a heavy wave of loss. 

_ She's not gone yet. There are years left. Years and years.  _

"You know," said Lilinka, with a sly note in her voice that made Mazelinka's stony old heart pick up its paces. "We never made it official, you and I. Why is that?" 

"Because I took one look at you, Lili, and knew I'd never make an honest woman out of you. You were destined to be a wild rose, not a tame peony." 

Lilinka snickered. "Oh, is that your version of poetry? Now I know where Ilya got his talents." 

"Oh, hush, you. That was a compliment." And it was, it was; Lilinka had been all dark hair and pink cheeks, the year Mazelinka sighted her from the deck of her ship. A basket of salt balanced on each shoulder, laughing on her way to market. It had been decided so quickly, between one breath and the next — Mazelinka knew she'd love her, till the oceans dried up and the rain never came again. 

"You still haven't answered my question, sweetheart." 

Mazelinka squeezed into Lilinka's chair, hip to hip, and scooped Lilinka's hand up in hers. So damn cold, but she had heat to spare. Always had. "It never seemed necessary," she said, as she traced the lines in Lilinka's palm with her finger. "We never wanted anyone else, did we?" 

Lilinka smiled, dark eyes gleaming. "Not once. Not since you stepped off your ship and asked me if I wanted to see your hold." 

They laughed together, bright as sun upon the sea. 

"And then those two hellions came along," Mazelinka added, "and we had ourselves a family. So why get the priests involved, when we already had it all?" 

"Well, that's an excellent argument for the women we were," said Lilinka. "But I think I've settled down enough for you to make an honest woman of me now. Let's have ourselves a wedding, sweetheart, once the tourists are gone, and maybe our slippery boy will have made his way home by then." 

"He’d better, just so he and Pasha can fight over who gets to take who down the aisle." 

"Hmph." Lilinka sighed, and rested her head upon Mazelinka's shoulder. "Always have to be the center of attention, don't they? Children." 

"Children," Mazelinka agreed. 

**********

**Letter IV: Lucio**

(A blurred note on the back of an old prescription; the writing was made with a pencil, and has smeared to near-illegibility. Someone wrote a formula for some kind of medicine over the letter, before crumpling it and throwing it into the street.)

_ To His Excellency, Count Lucio of Vesuvia,  _

_ Allow me to begin by expressing my deepest amazement at your generous offer of employment — I am almost beyond words, as I consider the opportunity you have offered me. Truly, I could not have been more surprised when your letter arrived.  _

_ An offer such as this is not to be discarded lightly, and it is with no small regret I must refuse. My clinic requires nearly all of my attention, and —  _

_ Oh, the hell with this.  _

*** 

Lucio stuck his head out the carriage window. "Can't this thing go any faster?" he bellowed at the driver, who hunched up as soon as the first word was out of Lucio's mouth. "I have things to do, people to see, and all of them are more important than you are, so…" 

"Of course, Count Lucio!" called the driver. "Right away!" 

"Good man." He settled back against his seat, and grinned when Valerius put a glass of wine in his hand. "Ah, that's what I like about you, Val. Always thinking of me." 

Valerius rolled his eyes and went back to fiddling with the end of his braid. He really shouldn't pout so much; Lucio considered trying to tease out a smile, but he had to get his business face on. Jules was always a tough nut to crack. 

"Oh, but those always have the sweetest meat," he murmured to his wine. Valerius looked up, then away when Lucio waggled his brows at him. 

*** 

_ Lucio,  _

_ I've tried to write this politely a hundred times, and now I have enough crumpled-up parchment to keep my fire going all winter. So now I'll tell you the truth, like I should have the first time. I didn't think I'd need to remind you about how well the last time we spoke went, but since you seem to be experiencing a loss of what little sense your gods granted you, I suppose I must.  _

_ You told me, in no uncertain terms, if you ever saw me again, you'd cut off  _ both _ my arms, as payment for the one I "stole" from you. Now, a thief I have been, of far more interesting things than  _ your arm _ , but even an idiot wouldn't call an amputation  _ theft _. But you've always been one to deny the truth, so long as it suited your purposes, haven't you? _

_ So take your offer, and shove it up your ass. There's not enough money in the world for me to work for you again, especially not when I'm actually helping people here at the clinic. It's something you should try. Who knows? You might have a hidden talent for it.  _

_ Dr. Julian Devorak _

*** 

Really, Jules had let the place go. Lucio remembered when this  _ clinic _ had been the cutest little hat and shoe shop, and now it was just a place for soppy sick people to go and cry about how much their boils hurt. At least the shop kept business flowing, and coin coming in — all good things for Vesuvia. 

Well, whenever this plague thing ran its course, trade would flow again, and this could go back to being a hat and shoe shop. For  _ that _ to happen, Lucio just had to convince Jules to move uptown for a bit. 

Someone -- a tall someone, in full plague doctor regalia -- stopped dead in his path, head tilted in his direction. Lucio smiled, and tilted his head right back. 

"May I help you?" they asked, politely enough. At least Jules was hiring good people.

Lucio swept his cape over his shoulder. "You may point me toward Jules," he said, graciously. "The sooner the better," he added, when they kept staring at him. 

The doctor started to reply, just in time for Jules himself to appear around a corner. 

"Is someone here? I heard a carriage pull up, and —" 

Amazing, how Jules went from zero to righteous fury in no time at all. He'd have been a force to reckon with on the battlefield, even if he looked like a praying mantis most of the time. 

"Count Lucio," he said, all tight and angry. "To what do I owe the…honor?" 

Lucio chose to ignore that nasty little pause — why start out the negotiations on bad footing? — and swept past the other doctor, with a wink for their trouble. "I got all sad when you never replied to my letters, Jules, and I missed you, so…" He shrugged and waved his hands at the shabby little clinic all around them. The other doctor slipped away into the dark, ruby eyes huge and focused on Julian until they disappeared down the hall. "Here I am! How are you?" 

"I've been better," said Jules, still tight, still angry. "Lucio, what do you want?" 

"Oh, I bet you've been better. Been a rough year on all of us. Right, Valerius?" He didn't glance over his shoulder to see if Valerius was nodding, but he was sure he was. "But I've got a way to make it easier. Give any thought to my offer?" 

Jules sucked in a deep breath. "Lucio, I —" 

"You're about to say no, I can tell." Lucio poked Jules in the chest and clicked his tongue. "I'll tell you now, I don't like it when people play hard to get. That's  _ boring _ , and my courtiers tell me we've got a real situation on our hands." 

"You  _ do _ ," spat Jules. "This isn't a joke, Lucio. People are dying." 

"And you're a doctor! I thought you'd want to help with that!" Lucio leaned in close, rocking up on the balls of his feet to stare Jules in the face. "I'm ready to sweeten the pot." 

Jules opened his mouth — probably to say no — so Lucio pressed one gold finger to his mouth. "Hear me out," he said. "Your clinic. A little down at the heels, isn't it?" 

"We're doing the best we can," Jules said against his finger — but he was wavering. Always so smart, Jules. He knew exactly where Lucio was going with this. 

Good. That made things easier. 

"Oh, I can see that. But how much  _ better _ would your  _ best _ be, if you had a little more capital to work with?" He grinned as the anger in Jules' eyes went out. "You come work for me, and I'll make sure your clinic stays open. Fully funded. That way it's not like you're  _ abandoning _ it. You're actually doing it a favor. Think of it that way." 

He settled back on his heels and waited. Wouldn't be long now; Jules could never resist the chance to do good. And Lucio was doing good, too — look at him, letting bygones be bygones, and not even  _ mentioning _ the whole arm thing. Just two grown-ups, having a grown-up discussion. 

"I can't leave my apprentice," Jules said, but by then his shoulders had slumped, and Lucio knew he'd won. 

"They seem capable enough." Lucio slapped him on the back, then hugged him, nice and tight. "Jules, you won't regret it. We'll kick this plague thing, and you'll come right back here, the neighborhood savior. So get packed! There's lots to do." 

Jules' eyes flicked down the hall, toward where his apprentice had disappeared. His mouth twisted, and finally he nodded. 

"Full funding," he said. 

Lucio smiled, all his teeth on display. "Full funding."

**********

**Letter V: Asra**

(A torn half-sheet of paper, ripped from the back of a medical text. The writing is uneven, as if written by a shaking hand.)

_ Asra,  _

_ You'd laugh, if you could see me trying to write this letter. 'Trying' being the operative word, because I've been staring so long at this blank page my candle is melted down to the very stub. No one else has ever left me speechless the way you have — a dubious honor you never asked for, and no doubt don't want.  _

_ Bear with me a little longer, please. After all, it's the last time I'm going to bother you. By the time you read this, I'll be gone — permanently, if this fever and  _ delightful _ delirium are anything to go by — and since I'm using my last few moments of clarity to apologize, I hope you'll actually open this letter when it arrives.  _

_ Shocked yet? Me, the demanding, dramatic doctor, is writing to you to apologize. Something I should have done a long time ago, come to think of it, but I was too selfish to realize it. I'm sorry for that, as I am for so many things. I'm sorry for asking for what you weren't ready to give, and for not being happy with the compromise you offered me. I'm sorry I didn't appreciate you as a friend — the friend you tried to be, and the friend I needed.  _

_ And —  _

( Here the ink spatters, and stains the page. Some words are visible beneath the ink, but they are smeared by what look like teardrops.) 

_ I'm sorry I wasn't there for them. I could make my excuses — god knows I've tried, to you, to myself, and to anyone who will listen — but I failed them, completely, utterly, and all in the name of a disease I couldn't cure.  _

_ I know now how much they meant to you. I don't expect you to forgive me, or even hope for that. I deserve everything you think of me.  _

_ If I had it to do all over again —  _

_ I can feel you rolling your eyes already. I'd probably just make the same mistakes again — but I like to think I could do better, given the chance. There's a good man inside me, somewhere, even if he's hidden beneath a miserable wretch. And if there was a way for me to fix this, any of it, I would. If I had the chance, and the time. I swear it.  _

_ I wish you well, Asra. Whatever else you think of me, believe that. May you survive this plague and this city, and may you find happiness somewhere better.  _

_ I'm sorry. For everything. I will be sorry for —  _

(The letter is unfinished. A single jagged ink line spreads from the last word; the writer was startled in the course of its writing. Perhaps by a knock at the door, or an unexpected visitor.)

***

Pomegranate juice for blood; who would have thought it could be so easy? If he didn't have a million other things to do, Asra would have laughed his fool head off. 

_ As long as Valerius doesn't notice someone messed with the drinks, the whole ritual's off _ . He ran through the halls of the palace, laughing anyways, breathless and windblown and riding the edge of a manic high he knew could shatter, any moment, into weeping. 

No one paid him any attention. Why should they, when the tiny sandwich room and the fire dancers and the rainbow room were so much more interesting? He was just one more masked guest, hurrying to find his pleasure. 

The best sort of disguise: the kind no one suspected was a disguise at all. 

Asra sped around a corner and nearly lost his footing. He managed to keep his balance, but collided with a tall, red-haired man, his face hidden by a beetle-shaped mask.

"Whoa there!" boomed the man, helping Asra up and dusting off his shoulders. "You all right — okay then, where's the fire?" 

Asra yelped laughter over his shoulder and kept running. It wasn't Ilya, couldn't be Ilya — by now, Ilya was free of the dungeon, playing his part in the little drama Lucio had set out for them all, whatever that might be. 

There was a part for Asra in that production — that much Lucio had implied, again and again, all winks and grins and insinuations — but he wouldn't be attending. No, he had his own two-person show to star in, so he hoped Lucio had an understudy. 

_ Listen to me, I've been hanging around Ilya too long. Beating metaphors like the proverbial dead horse.  _

He slipped from the veranda to the gardens, into the dark, humid air that rustled with a hundred unseen wings. Someone laughed nearby, a guttural  _ ha, ha, ha _ , but no one came in sight. Aside from the laughter, and the wings, Asra could have been alone in the garden. 

_ Not alone. Not for long.  _ Trees whipped at his face and hair and clothes, but he never slowed. He had to reach the fountain by midnight; the Magician had been quite clear about that much. They couldn't wake alone. 

Silver mist had already started to coalesce when he reached the still copse. Willow trees dragged their branches through the clear water, stirring faint ripples with each breeze — but the silver mist ignored trees and wind, and slowly formed the shape of a body. 

"Please," Asra whispered. He pressed a hand to his chest, the brand already burning there. "Please — let it — let it  _ work _ ." 

The Magician had been clear about this, too: the ritual might not work. It all came down to chance. 

"Please," he whispered again. The sounds of the Masquerade had vanished, and he was alone. Briefly, he wished for Ilya — if nothing else, he would have had a story to pass the time — but then the mist formed an arm, and a hand, and Asra staggered forward to clutch it, his heart kicking hard enough to break his ribs. 

"I'm here," he said. "I'm here." 

**********

**Letter VI: You**

Even Vesuvia falls prey to grey dawns, on occasion. When you push the shutters of the shop windows open, a gentle fog tries to roll in, as quiet and sure-footed as a cat. Your familiar makes a sleepy noise from his spot at the curve of your shoulder, then buries themself under your shirt. 

"Good morning to you too," you whisper, brushing a knuckle over their head. "Sorry that  _ some _ of us have to get up and work for a living." 

They don’t make a sound, not even when a cool breeze scatters the fog and raises a quick wave of gooseflesh up your bare arms, but a warm glow shrouds your mind.  _ Good sleep _ , seems to be the gist of it. 

"Sleep  _ is _ good, but so are customers, and staying busy." You take one last look down the street before stepping back inside the shop, and click your fingers to light the lantern above the door. 

No one will come in for an hour or so, which gives you plenty of time to sweep and dust and lay out a few of your newest potions. Lonely work, even with your familiar sighing in their sleep, but it must be done. 

_ Too bad my  _ roommate _ thinks chores are for the weak — at least that's what he said, in between the second and third Salty Bitters last night _ . You laugh to yourself, and head for the broom closet. 

By the time your chores are finished, the sun has burned away the lion's share of the fog; it'll be a hot day, because even in winter Vesuvia knows nothing else, but the sea breeze is kind and cool as it tosses the hem of your robe. And hot days are good for business — people come in looking for glass bottles enchanted to stay cold, or fans that wave themselves. Asra's little tricks have served you well these past few years, and they'll serve you well for many more. Though who's to say what was your trick to begin with, or his? Not that it matters, between friends. 

A rattle at the door startles you from your thoughts. The noise isn't a knock, more of an off-kilter tap-and-scratch, and there's no one standing on the threshold when you open the door. 

"Hello?" you call, just before having to duck as Malak bursts into the shop, hollering and looping in dizzy circles near the ceiling. "Malak! The windows are open, you silly bird, why didn't you — oof!" 

He drops something on your head. It doesn't hurt, but you still yelp with surprise. Your familiar leaps from your shoulder to the closest bookcase, squalling sleepily in your direction. Malak, for his part, settles on an empty birdcage and starts to preen himself, ignoring both of you completely. 

"All right then, let's see what you brought me this time." You stoop low, knees popping, and scoop up the ribbon-tied scroll lying half under a low couch. "Oh, playing mailman now?" 

Malak gives you a baleful look, squalls once, and darts out the door. 

"I guess I offended him." 

_ Loud one.  _

"Well, can't argue with that, though we all have our moments…" Your voice trails off as you recognize the messy scrawl just below the ribbon, written in ink so fresh it still gleams in the light. A helpless, foolish smile warms your mouth while you pull away the ribbon, and a fresh burst of his smell — leather, harsh soap, and the sea — fills your nose. Two blossoms tumble from the last fold of the letter, a little smashed, but still fragrant and vivid. You cradle the petals, gold and magenta, in your hand, still smiling. 

_ My darling love,  _ reads the first line of Julian's letter. 

*** 

_ I apologize in advance for what was undoubtedly a smashing entrance on Malak's part. Well, maybe not  _ in advance _ , since he'll have done the smashing and entering by the time you read this, but the apology is still very valid!  _

_ My duty called me away early this morning, long before the dawn, and I hope you'll forgive me for not waking you to say goodbye before I left — you were sleeping so sweet, and your little friend had made the most adorable nest of your pillows. I couldn't bear to disturb you. I didn't think I could pull it off, but I managed an almost silent exit! Longing for you all the while, I might add.  _

_ It'll be a long day of house calls before I come back to the clinic, I'm afraid. Half the city seems to have come down with the same damnable cold, which means I'll be running from one end of Vesuvia to the other while the light lasts. On days like this, I wish I still had that blasted curse, if only to save everyone all this coughing and sneezing.  _

_ I just realized I  _ literally _ gave up a cure for the common cold. In a manner of speaking, and not really, since the curse was always more of a removal than a cure — and I'm rambling away, aren't I? What was I saying? Oh, right: I'll be back late, my dear, and will miss you every moment I'm gone. Like a thousand arrows in my heart — that will be the pain of not having you at my side.  _

_ I can just see you laughing now.  _

_ Before I forget, and leave them in a carriage — I passed the most beautiful wild garden today, in one of the old ruins in the Flood District. It's all coming back to life. You wouldn't believe the colors.  _

_ I couldn't help picking a few of the flowers for you. Beauty for beauty, as the playwrights say. Remember  _ you _ made it possible for them to grow again, when you saved the city. When you saved  _ me _ , mostly from myself.  _

_ I love you. When I get home tonight, let’s dance.  _

_ Your Julian  _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://theherocomplex.tumblr.com)! <3


End file.
